cisternas rotas

I'm sitting in a plastic chair somewhere in rural Queretaro (MX), pondering these words: You have abandoned your first love and replaced it with broken cisterns that cannot hold water.

Cisternas rotas. Broken cisterns.

Cracked and dirty, useless pieces of pottery that dress themselves up with new layers of imaginative colors that draw the eye away from the fissures they try to hide with shame.

I know something about cisternas rotas. Many times in the last year I've eagerly gulped down the sandy water that accumulates in these dusty old clay vessels instead of seeking the pure spring that comes from the eternal Well.

Cisternas rotas. The thing about dirty water is that after a while, you start to forget what the other kind tastes like. You mean there is a place I can drink without guilt or shame? A place I can gather water that will last more than the moment in which I swallow? A kind of water that will truly quench my thirst for love?

I find myself standing at the edge of an old well. I've been here before. Alone, wondering where a truly abundant life really lies. Suddenly, a man appears and asks for a drink. He says something about a well that never runs dry. Ever prone to distraction, I change the subject to a prophesy about the coming of a Messiah. "He will reveal everything to us." Maybe my life with change one day, but certainly not today. Then, this.

"I who speak to you am he."

"Anyone who comes to me and drinks, from within him will flow streams of living water."

He tells me everything I have ever done. He knows it all, and yet he does not run. Nor does his face judge me. A thousand times I have fallen and yet he tells me to go, and tell the others about him.

As I walk away, I think to myself..."Maybe at last I can give up my cisternas rotas."